


I Measure Every Grief I Meet

by AnnaofAza



Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Angst, Bonding, Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Post-Movie(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-17
Updated: 2016-05-17
Packaged: 2018-06-08 23:27:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6879820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The new Arthur is Harry's father, and he knows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Measure Every Grief I Meet

**Author's Note:**

> Title belongs to Emily Dickinson, but this fic is mine.

The funeral takes place underneath dark clouds and a drizzle of rain that turns into mist that clings desperately onto overcoats and faces. It’s located on the grounds in a private grove, and Eggsy watches Harry’s coffin being lowered into the ground with an impassive face, nails digging into his palms. Beside him, Roxy takes his hand and briefly squeezes. 

“You okay?” she asks, and Eggsy forces himself to nod and reply, “I’m all right, Rox.” 

He’s gotten so many variations of this same question from multiple people multiple times and tells himself the more he repeats it, the less it hurts. Merlin, standing next to a man in a greatcoat and a hat, something Eggsy once called a fedora, making Roxy sigh and shake her head. He can’t remember the name now, but something about the man draws the eye, though Eggsy can’t say exactly why that is. 

“Who is that?” Eggsy asks, out of the corner of his mouth, and Roxy’s eyes flicker towards the stranger and back.

“That’s the new Arthur,” she says. Roxy then tells him that the new Arthur was actually considered for the old Arthur’s position years and years ago, but was turned down. “Everyone gets to put in names for Arthur, but it’s more of…of a board or committee of some sorts who gets to officially choose. And they thought Chester had more experience and…aligned more with their views.” 

So, in translation: they were all posh twats. Eggsy can see that. But… “Why did he get elected this time around?” 

Roxy quietly winces. “They had the implants.”

“Oh.” Eggsy doesn’t know yet whether to feel completely justified in his choice. On one hand, anyone who was willing to let billions of people die a gruesome death deserved to have their head exploded. On the other, it caused chaos, something Kingsman was in a flurry to fix, and Eggsy wonders if some of those people were coerced or blackmailed into getting those chips implanted. 

Right now, the field agents who died in V-Day are in their respective graves, and Eggsy watches as some people step up to the front to say a few words about a specific one. When Harry’s name is called, Merlin, Percival, and a few others give short speeches, and Roxy quietly looks at Eggsy after Tristan steps off the podium. 

Eggsy shakes his head. He can’t. He hasn’t prepared anything, and he doesn’t know what to say. 

Merlin then murmurs in Arthur’s ear, and Arthur steps forward. “V-Day was a day of great loss, not only to Kingsman, but to friends, family, and loved ones,” he begins, and his voice quivers, just a little bit. Eggsy’s too far to really see his face, but he notices the hands on his cane are trembling. The rest of his speech is almost drowned out by the pattering of the rain, but Eggsy raises his umbrella over his and Roxy’s heads and tries to listen to words that make him wish he’d stepped up and said _something_ , anything to commemorate Harry. 

“Lest we forget,” Arthur finally ends and bows his head, hands shaking more than ever. 

Everyone intones _lest we forget_ , and Eggsy looks away when the first shovelful of dirt hits Harry’s coffin. 

* * *

After his first field mission, Eggsy receives a message from Merlin to debrief with Arthur. “Am I in trouble?” he asks. 

“No,” Merlin says, but refuses to elaborate any more. Eggsy sighs, deciding to keep on his suit, and practices his posh accent on the way to the office. He knocks politely and waits for the “come in,” looking around the room. It looks the same, with the towering bookcases and fireplace, but this Arthur does not. He has balding hair, streaked with gray and combed over his forehead, and thick eyebrows. His suit is dark with a faint plaid pattern and a tie, which also has a mixture of blue and gray stripes criss-crossing over each other. 

Eggsy notices Arthur assessing him, as Eggsy’s been doing himself, but instead of scolding him, Arthur smiles genially, if a bit nervously. 

“Hello, Galahad,” Arthur says, and his voice is strangely kind. “Have a seat.” He gestures to the one across from him, and Eggsy sits, trying not to remember that this is the room where he refused to shoot JB, where it all started going to shit. Between them is a coffee table, and sitting on it is a silver platter of sweets, some sandwiches, and a pot of tea. “Drink?”

Eggsy hesitates, and Arthur looks at the teapot and grimaces. “Oh. I suppose the last time an Arthur invited you to drink something…” He then takes a cup, pours a generous amount into it, tips the contents into his mouth, and puts his palms flat on the table, showing Eggsy he has no antidote or activator. Both of them sit for a few minutes in silence, waiting, and when Arthur doesn’t start convulsing or choking, Eggsy nods. “Yes, I would like some, please.” 

To his surprise, Arthur picks up the teapot and serves Eggsy, waving his hand towards to a sugar bowl and a tiny pitcher of cream. Eggsy first tastes, just as Harry taught him during their breakfast etiquette lesson, then adds just one spoonful of sugar, passing on the spoon to Arthur, who dumps a few generous spoonfuls and a swirl of cream into his drink. 

“So, Eggsy–may I call you Eggsy?” At Eggsy’s nod, Arthur continues, “I’m meeting with all the agents face-to-face, just to get to know them a bit better. If you didn’t know, I used to be in Kingsman’s technology sector and also was a handler, so I’m afraid I’ve been cooped up and haven’t interacted with the field agents.”

Eggsy’s sure Chester King would have never admitted to any of his shortcomings, so that encourages him to ask, “You were…you were like Merlin, sir?” 

“Oh, Merlin is in a class of his own, but you have the general idea. I have had this rather brilliant idea of what to do with the bowler hats: head warmers or coolers for extensive temperatures. Perhaps a massaging feature for dull meetings.” 

Eggsy tries and fails to hide a smile, not sure if Arthur’s taking the piss. “Really?”

“Oh, yes. We already have a hat where blades come out of the brim, and you throw it like a Frisbee, but unfortunately, those don’t get used too often.” Arthur sighs in brief disappointment. “But enough about this; I can go on and on. I’ve been meaning to extend my utmost gratitude to you, Eggsy. Without you, Merlin, and Lancelot, this organization and the world would have been destroyed.” 

Eggsy briefly startles. He’s never been praised for such a big thing, and to be honest, it’s equal parts flattering and equal parts disbelieving. He half-expects to wake up in the tiny flat back in the estates, listening to Daisy wail in the next room or Dean shouting at his mum. 

But he then remembers his manners. “Thank you, sir.” 

“And Chester King…what he did was repulsive and treasonous to Kingsman.” Arthur’s tone is furious, and his hand shakes when he reaches for his cup of tea. “Normally, in situations like this, we’d try to bring the agent in question in for a trial or…” He trails off, and Eggsy briefly remembers Harry’s brief story during the martini mixing-–about a rogue agent taken in–-and shivers. “But since Chester has…perished, there isn’t much to do except move forward and have more transparency for his position…as well as offer you something as a debt of gratitude. You were in a tough position, and you acted to make sure Chester would not hurt anyone else.” 

“Oh, no, no,” Eggsy protests, “I don’t–”

“This is a Kingsman tradition. Please at least consider it. Is there anything you’d like?” 

Eggsy mutely shakes his head. He has what he needs: a flat for his mum and sister, funds for both of them, and a house of his own. _Harry’s_ house, really, but it’s legally his. He’s moved in officially last week with JB, claiming the guest bedroom as his own, as well as a few of Harry’s personal belongings that he couldn’t bear to move to the basement. His mum visited with Daisy, bearing a few little housewarming gifts, and had nearly shrieked out loud at Mr. Pickle in the loo.

 _What kind of house is this?_ she’d asked, and Eggsy had only said, _a nice one._

Of course, there’s something he _wants_ , but it’s impossible. 

“Well, feel free to cash it in, so to speak.” Arthur reaches for a sandwich and takes a bite, chewing as Eggsy tries to gather his thoughts. “This agency owes you a lot. You’ll make a fine agent, Eggsy. Harry spoke very highly of you.” 

Eggsy’s used to hearing sentiments along this line, from Merlin, from the other agents, from even the previous Arthur himself, but it never fails to make his heart twist painfully in his chest. “Thank you, sir,” he practically whispers. 

Arthur then puts down his sandwich, looking very serious. “My son doled out praise very infrequently”–-and there it is, past tense, another reminder-–”but he had no small amount of it for you.” 

Eggsy shakes his head. He can’t hear this anymore. “I don’t think so, Arthur. Beg your pardon,” he quickly adds, as he’s sure that directly contracting Arthur is some breach of Kingsman etiquette. 

He then pauses, realization dropping into his stomach. “Your…your _son_?” Eggsy wants to say something like _he never told me,_ but immediately dispels that idea. Of course Harry wouldn’t have told him. “You’re…” 

“Harold Norman Hart the First, at your service,” Arthur says softly, and Eggsy can see it now: the shape of the chin, the brown eyes, and even the part in his receding hairline. The fury for Chester, one of the men responsible for Harry’s death in Kentucky, now takes on a different meaning. 

“I’m sorry for your loss, sir,” Eggsy replies, feeling guilty as shit. Here he is, mourning over what could have been–a selfish wish of having his feelings confirmed by a dead man-–and there’s Harry’s father, the one who raised and probably even recruited Harry into Kingsman, with a _real_ loss. A justifiable grief, unequal to his in any way. Selfish, even. 

“And I’m sorry for yours,” Arthur says. 

“I was just his recruit,” Eggsy mutters, remembering too late Harry’s  _if someone compliments or sympathizes with you, and you can’t figure out what to say, a simple thank you always works._

 _Enough,_ he thinks furiously. _Stop wallowing._

Arthur gives him a long look that Eggsy can’t understand, so long that Eggsy takes one of the sandwiches off the platter and starts gnawing away for something to do. He _is_ hungry–-running around a city while firing frantic rounds of bullets will do that to you–-but the thick paste of ham and bread and lettuce sticks in his throat when he swallows. 

“Agents are instructed to assemble a file on their candidate when they propose him or her, then are expected to take notes of their own during the training process,” Arthur suddenly says, and Eggsy wonders what he’s on about until the other man pushes something towards him. It’s a thick manila folder, crammed with papers that are held together by paper clips, and the words in neat cursive-– _Gary “Eggsy” Unwin–-_ written on the tab. “He did miss quite a bit, as he was in a coma, but he still watched footage and added his notes. I think you would like to have them.” 

Eggsy stares at it. “Am I allowed to?” 

“I wouldn’t have given it to you if it wasn’t,” Arthur says, a bit dryly. “You may have it, but it doesn’t leave the grounds, understood?” 

“Understood.” Eggsy takes it, then makes a move to stand up. “Am…am I dismissed, sir?” 

“There’s the house,” Arthur says. “Harry’s house.”

“But…it’s mine, isn’t it? Merlin said-–” Does Harry’s dad want it back? Of course, he _should_ have it, but a little bit of Eggsy rebels, wanting to fight for the last scraps of Harry’s possessions. _Let me keep something,_ he wildly thinks. _Anything._

“It is yours,” the other man interrupts. “But you may wish to read the will in its entirety. There’s a copy at the end of the folder.” 

Eggsy forces himself to nod. “All right,” he promises.

Arthur sighs again, and Eggsy sees moisture in his eyes. “I know you’ll make the Galahad name proud, and I think Harry would…Harry wouldn’t want anyone else inheriting his title. 

“You are excused.” Arthur then nods and waves at the food at the table. “Would you like some to go? More tea?”  

“No, thank you. Good day, Arthur.” Eggsy nods again, standing up and retreating to the door with the folder tucked underneath his arm. 

He feels as if he should say something, but in the end, simply leaves.

* * *

When Eggsy gets back, he ignores the rumbling of his stomach and deposits the folder on the kitchen table. There’s the legal documents with pictures-–Eggsy winces at his arrest record-–and notes written in neat, looping letters on lined paper. His heart twists again at the _Lee’s son would make a fine proposa_ l on Harry’s introduction letter to Chester, then at _I see a young man with potential, with a good heart and quick mind. His tenacity and loyalty will make him a fine Kingsman._

The little annotations on Merlin’s reports on him make Eggsy briefly touch his fingers to his lips, some even making him laugh. _Of course_  is written next to Merlin’s wry _Excellent driving skills. Hacked into one of our cars in record time._

Eggsy then reads the last piece of paper in the folder and lets out a strangled sob in the little, lonely house. 

_To Gary “Eggsy” Unwin: I leave him everything, as he’s given me the same._


End file.
